His coat was folded over his left arm, his right hand was armed with a long, deadly bowie, needle-like on the point and razor-like on either side.
With this terrible two-edged weapon he met their onslaught, and the first man went down with an ugly gash across his left breast.
“Curse you, you’ll die for that,” gritted one of the comrades of the fallen man, and he made a heavy blow with his blade at the brave fellow’s throat.
Barry Brown caught it on the coat that served him for a shield, and before the outlaw could strike again, a bullet, sent by Harry Hale, crashed through his brain, and stretched him lifeless by the side of his wounded comrade, whose fall he had sought to avenge.
Down the hallway dashed Hale and Gorse.
After them, pell-mell, rushed the men from the hallway above.
“Brown?”
“Here.”
“We must fight our way out.”
“We can do it.”